


Castle On The Hill

by thatsthefrailtyofgenius



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, M/M, Magic!Stiles, Slow Burn, but i haven't written that yet so we'll see, but its okay, derek is not always a failwolf, eventually, he's in therapy at least, stiles is kind of a human wreck, there might also be some boning a bit later on, they're wrecks together
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-03-16
Packaged: 2018-09-17 19:02:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9338756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatsthefrailtyofgenius/pseuds/thatsthefrailtyofgenius
Summary: “Is everything okay?”“Define okay,” Stiles lets out a small, resigned, breathy laugh and wets his lips with his tongue, head still bowed.“Is that fire I can hear?”“Yeah, I’m burning my clothes.”“Why are you doing that?”“They have blood on them?”“Scott hasn’t said anything.”“I – Scott doesn’t know.”“What?” Derek’s voice falters slightly and Stiles swallows again, trying to remember how to inhale “how does he not know that your clothes are covered in blood?”“He knows about the blood, he – he doesn’t know why it was there.”“Oh,” Derek says, pausing for a moment, “why was it there?”“I killed someone.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The summary makes it seem a lot more dramatic than it really is. Basically there's a lot of stuff everyone needs to deal with in the wake of their not being so much trouble in Beacon Hills all the time. Stiles is missing Derek, Derek owns a successful coffee brand in New York, there's lots of repressing and avoidance, and some stuff happens in between. 
> 
> I have the majority of this written already, I just have to get the last few thousand words out. 
> 
> I am going to be on a writers retreat with my uni group in Boscastle for the next few days, but I'll do my best to reply to comments whenever I get a signal. 
> 
> Let me know what you think, and as always, thank you.  
> Dee xx

When it first starts, he doesn’t really know why, all he knows is that something isn’t right. Something is very not right. But it’s too terrifying for him to really pay attention to. Well, actually, it’s not like he has the best attention span in the first place; what he means is that he’s repressing.

He’s repressing a hell of a lot of bullshit so that he can get up in the morning and pretend that he doesn’t have this huge open wound in his chest. He’s pretty sure that’s what the rest of the pack are doing too, what they’ve been doing for nearly a year now… holy shit, has it really been a year? A year on Sunday, if he remembers correctly, which he always does, unfortunately.

And he thinks he should probably go and speak to Scott about it, get him to open up. He’s assured Lydia that he’s on speed dial, should she feel the need to not-repress some of the bullshit that they’ve… well yeah, been repressing. There’s a whole lot of repressing going on, and he knows it’s really not healthy in the long run.

But he can’t bring himself to give a shit, because he’s a teenage human beta in a werewolf pack that his best friend is the alpha of, so you know, there are usually more imminent issues to deal with than grieving for their friend. Who has now been dead a year. And who’s grave he hasn’t visited since the funeral. Fuck, okay, he’s _trying_. He’s really trying.

And every morning he wakes up and forces himself to get out of bed, forces himself to shower and brush his teeth and eat an apple, because hey, all the running away from death they do isn’t going to work if his motor is out of juice. And every morning, he stares at his phone.

He stares at the screen with this little frown creasing his brow whilst he waits for Scott at school, his thumb hovering over the name of the person he wants to call. Well, not wants to, not even needs to really. He doesn’t know what makes him look at that contact every morning, what makes his finger itch to dial, or what stops him from doing so. He doesn’t know why he scrolls through and pauses there, leant against his jeep, nibbling furiously on his bottom lip.

And he hates that it makes him angry. That those letters beneath the pad of his thumb fizzle a tickle of resentment along his spine or twist a sense of betrayal in his gut. He hates that he can’t seem to _move the fuck on_. Because really, it’s not like they were even friends in the first place. He doesn’t have the right to be frustrated or upset that Derek left them, that he got out.

Stiles sure as hell wishes he could do the same sometimes; pick up, take off, never look back. But he can’t. He’s still here. He’s still tethered to this town, to Scott’s side, unable to let him face it all alone.

And he knows he should be glad that they got the hell out of dodge, that the Hales finally got their close-to-happy ending, that they can be relatively safe somewhere their nightmares don’t haunt them. He should be relieved for them. But he’s an asshole, and he’s selfish, and he’s upset and he wishes he wasn’t, but he is, and he _wants_ them here, and he wants them around.

That’s another thing that he keeps repressing; why the fuck he suddenly misses Derek Fucking Hale. At worst, Stiles has wanted him dead, at best, he’s begrudgingly trusted him. So why, pray tell, is he so bothered by the fact that he left?

He – _no_ , he doesn’t think about it, because if he doesn’t think about it, then it’s not real, and it’s not a thing. It _can’t_ be a thing. It’s never been a thing. It will _never_ be a thing.

What is a real thing, apparently, is dread doctors with a steampunk kink, injecting people with a metallic substance and un-supernaturally breeding supernatural creatures out of troubled teenagers without their consent. That is a thing. It’s a shitty thing. Stiles hates that thing.

This morning is different though, because he hasn’t slept. He’s come straight from another night of pack work fighting off the bad guys, and he’s… he has blood on his hands. There’s blood everywhere. Sweat too. He’s croaky and sticky with partially dry tears, sweat, and blood; some of it is his own, some of it is – fuck. No.

He – he needs to shower. That’s what he does first. He strips off, putting his clothes immediately into a black trash bag ready to burn later, and turns on the water.

When he steps under it though, he can’t really bring himself to do anything other than stand there under the hot spray, head bowed, bloody hands braced against the tiles, eyes closed, letting it crumble away. He doesn’t cry though. He doesn’t break down.

Eventually, he stands up, washes the blood off of everything, and dries himself thoroughly, changing slowly into a t-shirt, wincing and cursing at the pain in his shoulder, the stiffness of his ribs, his strained muscles.

He feels hollow.

He leaves his phone off selfishly as he drives out to the woods, finds a small clearing, and sets fire to his bloody clothes, standing there watching the flames with his hands in the pockets of his denim jacket, jaw tight, eyes unblinking, gut twisting with the weight of what this means.

Soon, he sighs and stands near the dying fire, taking his phone out of his pocket, turning it on and staring at that name again. He stares for a few minutes before he finally presses down and holds it to his ear.

“Stiles?” he answers straight away, and Stiles swallows heavily, closing his eyes and bowing his head, as though he had hoped there would be no voice on the other end.

“Hey, Sourpuss,” he croaks, unable and unwilling to keep the exhaustion from his voice, his eyelids dry, itchy, and stinging with all the crying and the lack of sleep and the general unsatisfactory nature of the current situation. Derek’s voice washes over him, jolting an abrupt, sinking sensation in his gut. His stomach clenches and he has to focus on the ground beneath his feet to keep him upright.

“Is everything okay?”

“Define okay,” Stiles lets out a small, resigned, breathy laugh and wets his lips with his tongue, head still bowed.

“Is that fire I can hear?”

“Yeah, I’m burning my clothes.”

“Why are you doing that?”

“They have blood on them?”

“Scott hasn’t said anything.”

“I – Scott doesn’t know.”

“What?” Derek’s voice falters slightly and Stiles swallows again, trying to remember how to inhale “how does he not know that your clothes are covered in blood?”

“He knows about the blood, he – he doesn’t know why it was there.”

“Oh,” Derek says, pausing for a moment, “why was it there?”

“I killed someone,” Stiles’ voice cracks and the lump in his throat chokes him slightly, tears harshly rising in his eyes again, breath hitching, “there are these dread doctors and they’re harvesting teenagers, experimenting on them, turning them into supernatural chimeras. One of them were attacking me, trying to kill me and – it… fuck, it happened so fast, I didn’t mean – I didn’t want to.”

“Stiles, calm down-”

“I – it bit me. It bit me and it was saying all this stuff about my dad and about me and how it was going to hurt him and rip us apart and it wouldn’t stop, it kept trying to _eat_ me. It was going to fucking eat me, Derek, and then I was bleeding and I was climbing the bookshelf and it was trying to pull me back down and I grabbed the pole and it slid back and it just-”

"Stiles, stop. Breathe."

"But-"

"Just breathe."

Stiles forces himself to stop rambling and swallows again, pacing back and forth, hands shaking violently as he runs one through his hair, the other still bracing the phone against his ear.

“Say the names of the streets around your house.”

The tears are streaming hot and fast down his face now and he almost chokes as he tries to gulp in air, what little of his breath he can tuft out through his lips is visible in front of him, and it’s getting rapidly colder by the minute, the Californian winter setting a chill in his veins, numbing everything out at the edges.

Washington, Elm, Main, Cedar, Lincoln, Willow, Hickory….

He concentrates on that; the numbness, the way his bones feel stiff, the tip of his nose frozen, cheekbones flushed.

"You calm?"

"I don't know about calm," Stiles grumbles, huffing as he hoards himself closer to the fire, warming his free hand on it.

"Okay. It’s your choice whether you tell anyone else about this, but I think you should-"

"No," Stiles interrupts him absolutely, sniffing, "no."

"Alright. Well, the body is gone, right?"

"It was stolen. That keeps happening."

"Right, and you've burned your clothes and showered?"

"And cleaned the jeep. Religiously."

"So you're in the clear," Derek says slowly and crisply, and Stiles' body only now starts to register the intense relief his voice brings, the painful edge of the sensation reminding him that that's all it is; a voice on the other end of the phone.

There's about two thousand miles between them in reality, and as quickly as it comforts him, it flares up that agonising pining in the pit of his stomach. He has to swallow a dry lump in his throat, and coughs to clear it properly, sniffing again as he leaves his clothes to burn on their own. He turns and walks back through the small clearing that leads to the edge of the mountain. He sits, legs bent up at the knees, aching and defeated.

"I feel awful."

"It'll wear off, just take some sleeping pills and knock yourself out for a few days, keep busy during the day, and when you feel yourself freaking out remember that worse people have done much worse things, and what you do is only a small portion of who you are."

"Who'da thought it? Derek Hale giving me life advice. Y'know, you're not too bad at this, for a grumpy social recluse with no friends."

"Thanks," Derek snorts, and Stiles frowns as he hears the rustle of fabric on the other end.

"Did I - I was going to ask if I woke you up, but it’s like six am over there, right? Of course I woke you up."

"Don't sweat it, I need to open the shop in an hour anyways," Derek says, his voice, now Stiles is paying attention, rough with sleep and quietened with lack of use. He likes it, he realises, it’s a lot more... human, than his usual tone.

"The shop?"

"Yeah, if you'd bothered to call before now, you'd know I own a coffee shop. I live above it."

"Look, mister, you didn't call me either, what's your excuse?"

Derek lets out a small, awkward, breathy laugh and Stiles knows he's pinching his nose between his forefinger and thumb the way he always does when he’s struggling for words.

"You're an annoying little shit?"

"Not good enough," Stiles remarks, his muscles relaxing and uncoiling with every exchange. He wipes his face with the back of his hand and zips his hoodie up, tugging it tighter around him and wetting his lips with the tip of his tongue.

“We’re not friends?”

“Nice try.”

"It’s complicated."

"Tell me about it," Stiles scoffs, sighing heavily and rolling his eyes.

"Why did you call _me_ about this? You could have gone to literally anyone else."

"Its... complicated?" Stiles offers, unwilling to start word vomiting about his stupid ridiculous crush over the phone at three am whilst his clothes burn to ashes behind him because he's covering up a murder he just committed.

"Right," Derek says, amusement in his voice now, "its cold out. Get home and get to bed."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles starts to feel a bit better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know its a couple of days late, but I've been exhausted and trying to come down after so much socialising. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy, and as always, thanks.   
> Dee xx

Stiles takes up running.

To begin with, he just manages about fifteen minutes of straight out sprinting. The rest of the time, he sits on the hill overlooking the town from the forest, and waits for his heart rate to return to normal.

Then he can do more.

After a few weeks, he can go for half an hour, then a couple of weeks later an hour, and then two. He never runs for more than four though, because regardless of increased stamina, that’s usually when he starts to urge and wheeze.

It’s not until a few months in that he really notices much of a difference. He’s changing one day, and catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. The breath gets knocked straight out of him, and he stands there for over a minute, just staring. His eyes follow the lines of some of his childhood scars, and then some of the more recent ones.

They’re framed by a toned stomach? What the fuck? That’s… no. Stiles is skinny. He’s supposed to be skinny. That’s his _thing_. He’s the skinny kid with the motor mouth and the awkward limbs that work on a different frequency to his brain. He’s not toned. That’s _not_ a thing.

Apparently though, it is a thing, because his arms are more built too, along with his shoulders and thighs. He has _thighs_.

It seems so foreign to him. Like its crept up on him without him realising it. He’s only been running to work off the frustration and distract himself from his own head. He hadn’t meant to get all… mature looking and fit.

But when he finally tugs a clean tee back over his head, he grumbles because it doesn’t fit properly anymore. None of his t-shirts do. Even his jackets are getting more and more uncomfortable around his shoulders and waist; he can barely lift his arms in anything.

He rips the t-shirt over his head again and goes delving for an older, baggier one.

Then he logs into the bank app on his phone and check his balance, figuring that he can afford to spend about $150 on clothes if he moves things around a little bit and asks Luca for a small advance on his wages next week.

Feeling disjointed, but slightly proud of himself, he shrugs into one of his dad’s jackets and drives the jeep to the mall, spending the day shopping around for some new clothes and drinking far too much coffee for his own good.

* * *

 

Stiles is tired.

It’s been months since the dread doctor bullshit was resolved; things are quiet and slow and peaceful, but he’s still just… tired.

Tired and heavy. Like things are finally catching up to him. Like the blur of the past three years is finally falling from the air around him and settling on his shoulders, seeping into his bones and living there, like termites. Like an itch that won’t simmer no matter how much he scratches, a stain he can’t scrub out.

He knows running away wasn’t the best thing to do. Or the most mature. Okay it was cowardly and he feels like an asshole. He _is_ an asshole.

But it had just gotten too much. Too loud. Too angry.

He’s angry. Was angry. Was is the key word, because driving past the state line of California had somehow alleviated a good portion of that anger, and made it so that he can breathe again. It didn’t take it all away, but at least he doesn’t feel like there’s a skeletal hand squeezing at his lungs anymore.

Which is good because Stiles is dangerous when he’s angry. Far moreso than any of the werewolves he knows; and it frightens him. He frightens himself.

He can hear Derek pottering around in the kitchen of the New York apartment, and Cora flicking on the shower in the bathroom, but he feels no obligation to move just yet.

Rain pounds down on the paned windows behind his head and the sleepless city grumbles to life under a stormy sky and suddenly, he feels more content than he has since he was fifteen years old.

He’s nineteen now. An almost adult. A partial adult. A young adult who can do things like leave the house at three in the morning with a haphazardly packed duffel bag and a partly functional jeep, and drive for two whole days without calling anyone.

Apart from Derek. He’d called Derek from a diner in Illinois.

That had been quite possibly one of the strangest moments of his life. It had been two am; he’d been driving for what felt like forever, he’d been ignoring all of his friends and his father, and he’d just ate what was quite possibly the worst burger ever made. And he’d read up on liminal spaces before, the weird buzzing in his blood and the detachment from reality on an almost halcyon level. He was in a state of in between; a bizarre place of neither here nor there.

So when Derek had answered the phone, Stiles’ voice had been croaky and dry, and his eyes had felt wide and loose in his skull, and the world around him wasn’t quite solid to the touch. More than anything, it had been the sound of Derek’s gruff confusion that had reminded him why he was in that place, why he was not at home in bed.

He’d asked if it would be okay for him to turn up on Derek’s doorstep in the following fifteen hours or so, and essentially bury his head in the sand for a while.

So that’s how Stiles got here, curled up in an incredulously comfy bed in the guest room of a frankly giant New York loft having turned his back on all of his responsibilities.

It’s going well for him so far.

That is, if he ignores the latent knowledge that his problems will still be there when he opens the can of worms again.

But he’s not ready. He’s not ready and he refuses to be forced into anything he doesn’t want to do. Not right now. He doesn’t have the strength to deal with that right now.

Derek doesn’t ask questions either. He had just texted Stiles the security code for the apartment so he could let himself in at whatever ungodly hour of the morning he’d arrived at, and the rest is history.

After a little while longer of listening to the rain on the glass, Stiles sighs and hauls himself out of bed. Forgoing pants for this time of morning, he just tugs on a woollen pullover he’d stolen from Scott last year, and pads from his bedroom out into the open plan kitchen and living room.

“I love you,” Stiles professes when Derek wordlessly hands him a big mug of sweet, strong coffee, “I love you and I want to marry you and spend the rest of my life pissing you off and drinking your coffee.”

“It’s too early for marriage proposals,” Derek replies blandly, not making eye contact as he settles opposite Stiles at the kitchen island. Derek works from home on Fridays; he spends the whole day giving himself arthritis from typing so much, and shouting down the phone at his minions.

His coffee brand had popularised so quickly that he’d had no choice but to expand almost immediately. He now has branches all across the city, and throughout New Jersey, Maryland, and Pennsylvania. They’re still growing too, and Cora goes to important meetings to decide where they go next and how they can afford to do it.

This doesn’t help with Stiles’ general feelings of being disjointed from reality. Not because it isn’t real or even plausible that a very rich person could move to a city and start a successful business, but because it’s Derek. Because its Derek Sourpuss Hale who lives in abandoned houses, lurks in the shadows, slashes throats out with his lethal werewolf claws, and has a penchant for making dramatic toothy entrances at opportune moments with flashy eyes and promises of death and destruction.

He doesn’t live in New York and make sweet, heavenly hot drinks for the working class. That’s just… its… Stiles is still adjusting.

“What are you doing today?”

“I’m in New York, man,” Stiles shrugs, “I’ll probably do a shit tonne of embarrassing touristy things. Maybe I’ll eat my weight in pizza? Maybe I’ll even buy an I heart NY t-shirt.”

“Please don’t do that,” Derek sighs, “people will judge you.”

“I’m Stiles Stilinski; people judge me 99% of the time. I don’t care. I’m in New York!”

“You already said that.”

“Alright, what do you recommend?”

“Just wonder around,” Derek tells him, “that’s really the only way you can experience the city authentically. If you try too hard you’ll miss the most important part of it.”

“What’s that?”

“New York is about _people_ , Stiles. You can do the touristy things because you’re supposed to, but what made me fall in love with this place, was sitting on a bench in central park watching _people_. They’re mean and ignorant and selfish, and they don’t like to be disturbed. But they’re all rushing to get to their lives, their _own_ people. They’re all so different and so much the same that I almost drowned in it.”

Stiles stares at him for a few moments, totally mystified by how Derek hasn’t really changed all that much at all… but also by how much he has. How he’s still bluntly honest, but in a much more calm, resigned way now. He’s softer round the edges, but more refined at the same time, older and more broken; but learning. Growing. Understanding.

Suddenly, Derek Hale is so _human_ , it takes Stiles’ breath away.

“Central Park?” Stiles considers, once he’s recovered a little. Derek nods, a small smile gracing his mouth, “okay. I’ll check it out.”

“Don’t call me if you get lost, which you will.”

“There he is.”

“Who?”

“The Derek Hale I know and begrudgingly love,” Stiles teases him, “now go do your… businessy thing.”

“My businessy thing,” Derek snorts, “you’re ridiculous.”

“You love it.”

Derek just rolls his eyes and makes a non-committal noise before taking his laptop to his bedroom, leaving Stiles to his day.

* * *

 

Stiles does get lost. A lot. Almost the moment he leaves Derek’s apartment building. And when he tries to asks someone for directions, he’s pretty sure they hiss at him. Eventually he gives up and wraps his shearling jacket tighter around himself, ducking out of the rain and the noise into a starbucks, ordering a gratuitous pumpkin spice latte and bristling as he hops up on a stool in front of the window.

Even inside, his breath can still be seen in the air as his body adjusts to the gathering warmth of the indoors, and he watches the rush of people walking past the slightly misted window. Derek is right; New York is dizzyingly fast and overwhelming, and it does feel a little bit like drowning.

But it’s a welcome sort of loud; a coalesce of colour and noise and culture that leaves room for little else in the head. It’s perfect for him, he thinks, as he wraps his fingers around his drink and lifts it just below his chin, leeching its heat and letting it warm his icy skin.

Right now, he needs to feel invisible.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy, thank you, and let me know what you think.   
> Dee xx

“Let’s take a break,” Deaton says, the slightest hint of concern to his voice. Stiles gulps down the dryness splintering in his throat and sniffs, wiping the glistening sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and shaking his head.

“No. I’m fine.”

“You keep saying that word, but I don’t think it means what you think it means,” Deaton replies, although he makes no more effort to stop him. Stiles just snorts and draws in a deep, shaky breath, wringing his hands once before holding them out again, palms facing up, forcing himself to concentrate.

He wets his lips and tightens his jaw, feeling around in his mind for that on switch again, closing his eyes and connecting with it, imagining it as a lone match in a dark room.

Swallowing, he envisions striking the match against its packet and gasping to himself as it sparks brilliantly with a hiss, and floods his veins, a hot rush of power that scolds his bones and soaks into his muscles, giving strength to the sinew and pumping directly to his chest.

“You have control,” Deaton speaks, his syllables crisp and soft as ever, “you are the spark.”

“Try telling it that,” Stiles croaks, but when he opens his eyes again, they’re a stunning, mystical purple all over, reflecting in the mirror across the room from him. Its jolting, frightening, and thrilling at the same time. Wonderful and dangerous. Just the way he likes it.

Focusing on keeping the spark contained, he stares hard at the pile of feathers in front of him. He turns his palms in on each other and feels the haze of magic between them, pushing in and visualising it as a force; a line of crackling energy that then branches off and wraps itself around the feathers.

Then they’re floating.

The feathers levitate from the exam table and begin to float softly in their masses around their heads, stark white and stunningly light.

“Shit,” Stiles breathes, raising his eyebrows. Then his knees buckle and Deaton only just catches him, dragging a stool out for him to sit on, the weight of his limbs like lead; heavy and gossamery at the same time.

“You did it,” Deaton laughs, elated as he squeezes Stiles’ shoulder, extending a finger to lightly press at a feather, laughing again when it rolls around his skin almost playfully before darting upward, settling buoyant in the air above them.

“I – yeah,” Stiles says, grinning from ear to ear, “I did.”

Then he passes out.

* * *

 

“Stiles,” Derek says, a slight bored look on his face as he crosses his arms over his chest and leans a little against the doorway. He had been in New Jersey on business when Scott had called him rather desperately and only as a last resort, like he had promised when Derek had left with Cora two years previous.

He had immediately set off on the forty-two-hour drive to get here and after checking in at a motel around three in the morning, he had crashed out for a little while, going at the crack of dawn, straight to Stiles' house. If he wants all the information about why he’s been called back into town, this is where he needs to be.

It doesn't surprise him at all that he finds the Stilinski household absent of its Sheriff, and Stiles passed out in yesterday’s clothes on the floor with a printout stuck to his face, several other pieces of paper littering the room.

As usual, the walls are plastered with photos of people and buildings, red string connecting them all in patterns and ways that only Stiles can really fathom together. The kid is loud and difficult and hyperactive, but he's a damn good detective.

Stiles isn't in the business professionally of course, and, apart from the supernatural anomalies that frequent the area, he spends the other half of his time studying, eating junk food, and masturbating. Stiles is a... well, Derek can't really think of a word for him if he's being honest.

Stiles flails around and falls over a lot; he defies gravity, he has a mouth that can spout innuendos and sarcastic remarks faster than Scott can fuck everything up with his damn hero complex. He's horny and over-energetic and always seems to get himself into the stupidest of situations.

Since Derek’s been absent, he’s come into his own, he realises; he’s grown into his narrow lines and put on a good fifty pounds in muscle.

And Derek can't help the twitch of amusement on his lips as Stiles snores slightly. He coughs, with no response, and sighs, shaking his head.

The research pasting every visible surface is clearly outdated, and not something that’s representative of why he’s here. He frowns, wondering what else Scott could have called him for, if not to help flush out a threat.

“STILES!”

He rolls his eyes when Stiles' body jerks out and jumps up to sitting position, limbs waving around dramatically as his eyes try to adjust to the light streaming through the blinds, and the surroundings.

“Holy shi- Derek? Fuck you man, fuck you,” Stiles curses, panting as he clutches his hand to his chest, trying to get his breathing under control.

"Hi," Derek remarks, holding up one hand, smirking.

"What the hell are you doing in my house? Did you come here just to confirm that scaring the shit out of people is still your favourite hobby?”

“I do it professionally now. It pays quite well,” Derek retorts, still looking quite amused as he watches Stiles pulling himself up onto the bed, rubbing the ink off his right cheekbone and hunching slightly in a defeated pose, yawning.

“You'd do good in one of those horror flicks with the silent killers that lurk in dark corners and have ridiculously obvious half-lit faces when they 'step into the light',” Stiles huffs, running a hand through his hair and looking around almost abashedly at the mess carpeting his floor and desk... and bed, and windows. It’s a wonder any light is getting through at all.

“So you're back,” Stiles finally acknowledges, eyes still a little squinty from being woken up so abruptly, “that's good,” he nods, licking his lips and not making eye contact, “I missed you.”

There's a moment of awkward silence and contemplation, as always. It’s much easier to talk on the phone, Derek muses, although he's always known that. He and Stiles text quite regularly actually. Out of all his previous connections in Beacon Hills, including Peter, he talks to Stiles the most, which had surprised him because just four years ago he had spent most of his time wishing he could crush Stiles' skull or rip his vocal cords out just to get him to stop fucking talking.

“Scott called me, told me there’s something requiring my immediate attention,” he breaks the ice, watching Stiles' conflict transform into excitement, his eyes lighting up despite his clear exhaustion. Derek makes a note to buy a burger later and force it down the kid's throat if he has to.

“Right, well it’s not what you think, nothing dangerous. Unless you count Erica’s fascination with the new Doctor at Beacon Memorial. Or that Isaac seems to think he’s some sort of parkour expert and trains on top of the fucking rooves everywhere. Or the fact that Boyd was working out from 4am till lunchtime last Sunday.”

“Stiles, off point.”

“Right, sorry. You’re here because Scott wants you to be here.”

“What?”

“He, uh, wanted you to be here for something he’s going to do this weekend.”

“Still not giving me the details,” Derek says, his voice stern and irritated as he moves across the room to take his usual seat in Stiles' spinning leather desk chair as though no time has passed at all. The material feels weird against his back and the familiarity of the surroundings flares up something inside of him, something he’s been working very hard to bury for a long time now.

“Scott’s going to propose. To Kira.”

“ _What_?”

“You say that a lot," Stiles comments, clearly far more nervous and jittery now he’s waking up properly. Derek chucks him his Adderall from the desk, and he flails a bit trying to catch it against his chest. He sits and waits for him to elaborate.

“He brought me back here because he wants to propose to his girlfriend?”

“Yeah. Why does that surprise you?”

Derek is still very confused as he sits forward a little.

“Because I’m not his friend. He only ever bothers with me when he needs me for something.”

Stiles simply blinks at him. Derek is suddenly hit with the cognizance that things have changed a lot since he’s been away, and that maybe there’s no gap for him here anymore; maybe so much has happened here without him, that he no longer really knows anything about his friends. If he can even call them that. It’s not like they’ve ever really spent time together.

Then Stiles stands from the bed, strides over to him, and slaps him hard up the back of the head.

“You fucking idiot,” Stiles says, outraged. Derek’s confusion piques, totally perplexed and now angry because he’s just been hit on the fucking head.

“What?”

“Stop saying that! Jesus fucking Christ, are you really that emotionally stunted? Are you really that insecure? Scott loves you, you dumbass. Of course he wants you here when he makes one of the biggest decisions of his entire life. You’re his brother.”

Derek looks at him for a few seconds, thinking over the information he's receiving. It’s a lot to process, and it changes his entire perception of every interaction he’s ever had with the two lanky, awkward teenagers that somehow shouldered their way into his life and claimed themselves a spot in his heart. He knows he cares about them, but he’s never actually considered that they might care about him too. Before now, he’d just assumed that he’s a means to an end.

Then he remembers something, and it’s easier to focus on that, than it is to dwell on this new realisation.

“Look,” Derek says, clearing his throat, slightly uncomfortable breeching the topic, “I know you got rid of the dread doctors and everything, but… how are you?”

Stiles sighs and sits forward, blinking again a few times and shrugging, “we cope; nothings really happened since then, so we were actually getting used to the whole not dying thing, but-”

“No, not the pack,” Derek interrupts him, “I mean you. How are _you_?”

Stiles pauses, frowning for a moment, something complicated passing over his face. Derek takes the moment to familiarise himself with it.

The brown eyes are still big and ridiculous; honey in the light; and there’s still the remnants of that spark there, that something _more_ , the likes of which not even Deaton has seen before. His jawline has filled out, and his neck is thicker, his shoulders broader, chest wider and more defined. Stiles isn’t a kid anymore, and it’s just another thing that Derek struggles to compute.

“I don’t know,” Stiles says finally, swallowing, “I’m not sure how I’m doing. I haven’t had time to think about it. That’s a good thing. I think it’s a good thing. The good thing is that there’s no time to think about the fact that it’s a good thing-”

“Stiles, breathe.”

“Sorry. I guess I’m dealing with it. Not like I got much choice, right?”

“Have you talked to Scott about it?”

“Not since I told him and we sorted it out and we still spend half our time together, but he – he doesn’t really look me in the eye anymore.”

“It’s hard for him.”

“You’ve killed people, right?” Stiles asks, a frown knitting his brow, pain swimming in his eyes.

“Yes."

“How do you live with it? Like… when does it stop hurting so much?”

Derek ducks his head again and swallows, shrugging before lifting his head again and looking straight at Stiles.

“When I find out, I’ll let you know,” he says, and Stiles stares at him for a moment longer before nodding once in defeat.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek is just a dedicated landlord, okay?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lemme know what you think. 
> 
> Dee xx

“I can’t believe you’re going to get engaged before I am,” Stiles says, fiddling with his tie as he fixes his hair in the mirror for the fifth time that hour, “you’re off getting married and I’m still applying for colleges.”

“Relax,” Scott grins, rolling his eyes and stilling Stiles’ hands where they attempt and fail to straighten his collar. Scott does it for him instead, before frowning at the movement of his own fingers.

“What?” Stiles says, nervous as all hell and craving his next dosage; he still has to wait another twenty minutes before his watch bleeps though, and Scott blinks before looking up again, hands moving to hold Stiles’ face either side.

“I just remembered,” Scott says, wetting his lips and swallowing heavily, “I had a dream exactly like this years ago.”

Stiles furrows his brow, as Scott leans in and presses a lingering kiss to his forehead. The pressure there, warm and light, makes a lump gather in Stiles’ throat.

“I was going to propose to Allison,” Scott tells him, and Stiles lets out a long breath, letting the words sink in.

“She’d be so proud of you, buddy,” he says, smiling softly, his nerves quietened for a moment, “she’d be teasing you that she never got a ring this nice.”

“Really? Because… I don’t – part of me still thought, even when I was with Kira to begin with, that one day we’d end up together. You know, one day, we’d reconnect and spend the rest of our lives growing old together.”

Stiles fixes him with a sad look, the moment only broken when Derek, who’s been leant against the kitchen counter the entire time, clears his throat and steps forward. Stiles has been so preoccupied up until now, that he realises he hasn’t actually been paying attention to the fact that Derek is fully kitted out in a bespoke three-piece suit.

“The universe hates me,” Stiles mutters, shaking his head and dropping it to Scott’s shoulder. Scott laughs, patting Stiles’ crown.

“I can’t believe you’re making me wear this,” Derek grumbles, fidgeting, tugging at the sleeves of his blazer. The movement only causes the already fitted sleeves to tighten around his arms, and Stiles makes a pitiful noise against Scott’s shirt.

“It needs to be perfect,” Scott shrugs, pressing another kiss to the top of Stiles’ head before taking him gently by the biceps and stepping him back one. Stiles draws in a deep, shaky breath, and nods.

“Okay, let’s do this.”

“How long is this going to take?” Derek says.

“Why, sourpuss, are your legs having withdrawal symptoms from those skinny jeans you live in?”

Derek growls and glares at him and Stiles, seemingly now recovered, pokes his tongue out at him. Scott rolls his eyes and drags them both away towards the door. He stops again before they open it however, and turns, looking at them both. Stiles squirms slightly and Derek pouts, huffing.

“What now?”

“I just…” Scott swallows again and smiles wider than ever, his big puppy eyes full of so much love that they both sniffle, embarrassed, “I love you guys so much, you know? It’s been years now, and so much has happened, and the three of us didn’t get along well to begin with, but we’ve come really far and I just want you both to know, I never want to be without you. You’re my best friends in the whole world. I can never properly thank you enough for everything you’ve done for me.”

“Bro, you’re not proposing to _us_ ,” Stiles says, although his voice is croaky with emotion and Derek looks panicked, his brain short circuiting with how much _stuff_ is resonating between the three of them.

“C’mon y’big saps, let’s get out of here before we end up marrying each other.”

Stiles claps them both on the shoulder, and passes between them, tugging them both out of the apartment and closing the door behind them.

* * *

Kira says yes.

Kira says yes immediately and there’s crying and hugging and laughing and lots of alcohol that Derek doesn’t even bother with. He lets Scott embrace him, congratulates them both, remains in the thick of the party long enough to be considered sociable (although he doesn’t really talk to anyone), and then disappears outside for a cigarette.

He shrugs out of his blazer and loosens his collar and tie, seating himself on the bench in the small shelters and fishing his tobacco out of the pocket of his waistcoat, along with this papers and menthol filters. Placing all on his knees, he starts to roll.

Tucking everything back into the pockets of his slacks, he sits back against the wall and lights up, closing his eyes for a moment.

The sun is setting over the hills, and he lets the light warm his face and seep into his bones, chasing away the anxiety.

“They’ll kill ya, y’know?”

Derek opens one eye sideways at Stiles just as he puts his own rolled cig in his mouth. Stiles snaps his fingers, and a small flame ignites between his thumb and forefinger. He holds it close to the end and waits until smoke curls around it.

“I heal,” Derek grunts, a slight headache beginning to throb behind his eye sockets, “what’s your excuse?”

“I’m a murderer?” Stiles offers, smirking as he tucks one hand in the pocket of his slacks, shifting on his feet slightly before settling on the decking, looking out across the city, “my best friend just got engaged and I’m lonely as fuck? My other best friend is dead? I have no idea what to do with the rest of my life? I’m a little bit drunk? Take your pick, man, there’s plenty more.”

“Now you’re just feeling sorry for yourself,” Derek remarks, slightly loose lipped with exhaustion. He’d travelled for forty hours, everything is complicated and confusing, and he hasn’t slept properly in three days.

Stiles snorts, raising one eyebrow at him as he curls smoke from his lips, making shapes with his tongue. Derek watches the way his jaw and throat move with it, and swallows tightly, looking away again.

“You’re one to talk, Mr I am responsible for everything bad ever.”

Derek scowls at him, and Stiles just grins, rolling his eyes. Derek watches him then, with Stiles seemingly focused on the landscape in front of them, he feels safer observing through half-closed eyelids.

He’s gotten a couple of inches taller in the past year, but it’s not enough to be really noticeable and with those few inches up, he’s gone a few inches out too. Derek had picked up on the change when Stiles had come to stay with him about six months ago, but he hadn’t put much thought to it.

Stiles’ ribs aren’t visible anymore, but his tummy isn’t soft either. His bone structure seems to have angled itself out. Derek is properly hit with the picture of a young adult with far more substance to him than the sixteen-year-old frame of hyperactivity that had slammed into Derek’s nineteen-year-old life and made it scary again. Scary and big and _more_.

Three years on, and he would never have predicted that he’d somehow make a home out of Stiles and Scott. His best friends, his closest confidants, his strongest allies.

And suddenly he’s so proud of them that his heart feels like it’s going to burst out of his chest, like he can’t breathe with the intensity of it. It’s something he’d given up on even hoping for.

“Hey, brooder, quit staring at me, I’m not a piece of meat.”

Derek startles and nearly drops his cigarette, grateful once more that he lets his stubble grow out to hide a blush, growling at Stiles for making him feel like a silly teenager again.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Derek snaps, although Stiles is still totally unaffected by his grumpy mannerisms, and instead moves to sit beside him on the bench, stubbing out his cig and rolling another.

“You’re allowed to be proud of him and feel things, you know? It’s not going to kill you to admit it.”

Derek sighs heavily and shrugs, finally giving in as Stiles hands him the bottle of vodka he’s swigging from.

“He’s like, your prodigy,” Stiles teases, nudging him gently, “you made him the man he is today.”

“Scott did it all on his own,” Derek tuts back, shaking his head, “I had nothing to do with the good parts. He didn’t even need me in the end. He found his own way. That’s why he’s the alpha and its why he’s the one that’s going to make this town’s pack as strong as my mum made ours.”

He can feel Stiles looking at him, but he doesn’t say anything else. That is, until Stiles smacks him up the back of the head again; not as hard as before, but with the same sort of sentiment.

“Ow!” Derek says, narrowing his eyes and disgruntledly rubbing the back of his scalp, “if you do that again I’ll hit you back, and you won’t like it.”

“Stop being an idiot then! Damn, you need therapy, dude. Do you seriously not see how important you are? To Scott, to this pack, to-”

Stiles cuts himself off, eyes remaining on Derek’s for a few tense seconds before he looks away and bows his head slightly. Derek itches, aches to know what the end of that sentence is. But he isn’t brave enough to push it.

“Just please try and at least entertain the idea that you might have done some good here? I’ll admit, you were an asshole in the beginning. But so was I. We all were. None of us had our shit together. We were all just running around like headless chickens trying to save innocent people; we just had very different ways of going about it.”

“We’re still running around like headless chickens,” Derek remarks, and Stiles opens his mouth, trying to think of a way to refute that statement, and failing, closing it again before dropping his shoulders, nodding.

“Yeah,” he agrees, “but it’s different now. You’re different now. You’re a good guy, Der, you just gotta try and see it.”

Derek’s chest contracts at the nickname. It’s so casual; different to sourpuss and sourwolf, different to ‘stalker’ and ‘Dr Jekyll’, and the many other colourful aliases Stiles uses to wind him up all the time. This is soft, familiar, personal. And its what Laura used to call him.

“I’m not a good guy,” Derek insists, “I’ve hurt people.”

“Eh, take a t-shirt, buddy; we’re getting badges made up.”

“ _Stiles._ ”                                                            

“What? I’m fucking serious, asshole! I literally saw you take six bags of shopping from an old lady and help her up seven flights of stairs this morning. Liz on your third floor says you’ve only been in town less than two days and you’ve already fixed a sink, a shower, and warned off Ms Kalakinos’ dickhead boyfriend.”

Derek attempts to argue that, but can’t exactly deny that he did all of those things.

Mrs Gutierrez is recently widowed and suffers from arthritis; her tenancy is going to run out soon and she doesn’t have anyone keeping an eye on her, since she’s never had any children. Derek was only being a good landlord in helping her carry her bags.

And in reference to ‘Liz’ on the third floor, he makes a mental note to remind her that her rent is three weeks late and if he wants to, he can make life far more difficult for her.

And Ms Kalakinos, or Renata as she always makes him say, has a five-month old baby and a heavy handed boyfriend; god forbid Derek doesn’t like seeing vulnerable people getting pushed around by deadbeat lowlifes who’d rather drink themselves into violent rages than take care of their damn kid.

Plus, the fact that he lives in New York means that he doesn’t really get to check up on his tenants very often; it’s not his fault if he ends up doing things for them whilst he has the chance.

It’s only when he registers the fond look on Stiles’ face that he realises he’s been saying all of that out loud, and he squirms a little, uncomfortable. Doing little shit like that doesn’t make up for the astronomical fuck ups he’s made before, and he doubts anything ever could. Fixing some bad plumbing and looking the other way when less-fortunate people don’t pay their rent on time isn’t going to bring his entire family back from the dead.

“Stop looking at me like that!”

“What, I can’t be enamoured when one of my besties tries to deny that he’s a good person whilst simultaneously proving that he is, in fact, a good person?”

“Stiles?” Derek sighs.

“Yeah?”

“Shut up.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek can't say no to Scott, Cora tells everyone off, and there's a committee meeting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think. 
> 
> Enjoy, and as always, thank you.   
> Dee xx

Derek one hundred percent means to go back to New York the following day. He only has an overnight bag packed, and he doesn’t take anything out of it, save his toothbrush and a set of clean black jeans. He even has the exact money he needs for gas to make the drive back.

It’s just that the whole pack party all fucking night and pass out all over Scott’s living room. When they wake up, Derek goes to get dressed and pack the Laguna – the car he uses for business trips – Scott looks so fucking dejected, he doesn’t have it in him to leave straight away.

“You’re such a sappy dork,” Cora tells him over the phone as he sets up his laptop at his old table in Starbucks after they’ve all had breakfast and scattered out, “you can’t say no to any of them.”

“It’s Scott!” he says, exasperated as he types in his password and puts it on loudspeaker to talk whilst he works, “no one can say no to him; it’s like kicking a fucking puppy.”

“He’s the ultimate apex predator, Derek, he can handle a no.”

“You weren’t there, you didn’t see! He looked like he was going to cry.”

“He’s pulling the wall over your eyes. They all know how to do it; they actually have a pack strategy.”

Derek makes an offended noise and glares at the barista who brings him his drink and shortbread slice, growling as he realises that his least favourite assistant manager has messaged him with yet another problem. He doesn’t usually mind, but Thomas is so fucking incompetent, it’s really starting to grate on his nerves. And learning that the pack has a specific way of getting him to agree to things, really does not help his mood.

“I’m going to be having words with Stiles when he gets here.”

“You’re having coffee with Stiles?”

“He said he has a problem with his college application! I can’t exactly refuse to help him when I know the exact solution to the issue!”

Cora snorts on the other end of the line, and Derek narrows his eyes at his computer screen as he opens up the email and starts furiously typing away, promising Thomas that if anything else happens because of his laziness at work, he’s going to fire him effective immediately.

“You’re not alpha anymore, Derek,” Cora says a moment later, in a softer voice, “they’re not your children or your responsibility.”

“I failed them,” he tells her, distracted but still feeling the sting of her words, “I owe them so many favours I can’t even count them all on my fingers.”

“You didn’t fail them, the pack dynamics shifted and you had your own shit going on. You can’t blame yourself for the whole ‘losing your powers for a while’ thing for the rest of your life. It’s not like they didn’t land on their feet; Scott has it covered.”

“I thought you loved them, why are you suddenly so against me being here for them?”

“I just-”

She cuts herself off for a moment, letting out a long breath, and Derek can almost see her pinching her nose between her forefinger and thumb.

“Of course I love them, they’re our friends. I just don’t want you to get attached to the point where you can’t leave again. It killed you last time. If you want to stay, then stay, but make it permanent. You can’t keep putting yourself through this. You know how pack bonds work; you’re not an official beta to Scott, and running hot and cold isn’t fair on you, and it isn’t fair on them either.”

“Cora, it’s just a few more days; it’s not like I’m moving back into the loft and setting up a shop here.”

“Why haven’t you?” she asks him, and he shifts in his seat, taking a swig of coffee to distract himself.

“What?”

“Why haven’t you set up a branch in Beacon Hills? It makes sense, it’s our hometown; we’d get a shit tonne of business there. Why isn’t there a Hale café in Beacon Hills?”

He struggles to think of a response that doesn’t make him incredibly emotionally vulnerable. He’s in public; he _hates_ getting emotional in public.

“I-”

“It’s because you’ll have an excuse to go back. Derek, I don’t think Scott is the real reason you find it so hard to walk away from that town.”

Just then, Stiles walks in, dressed in a t-shirt and jeans with a beanie and sunglasses, looking like death warmed up. He spots Derek immediately, orders his usual, and comes to sit on the other side of the table.

“Please be nice to me, my head hurts.”

“Ah, hello there, real reason,” Cora’s voice chirps from Derek’s phone as Stiles takes his clubmasters off and raises an eyebrow, a smile gracing his pink mouth.

“Cora! Always a delight.”

“Stiles! Never a delight.”

“Okay, goodbye,” Derek says deadpan, ignoring the beginnings of Cora’s protests as he hangs up, effectively shutting of the dangerous direction of that conversation, and ignoring Stiles’ curious expression.

“Thanks, Nate,” Stiles smiles as the barista places his drink on the table in front of him, along with a giant chocolate muffin, smiling back before pointedly shooting Derek a bitter look, and leaving them be.

“Wow, you pissed Nate off, you must be in a bad mood.”

“I piss everyone off; its talent of mine.”

“Okay, it’s too early for your doom and gloom. I need caffeine in me before I tell you off. What are you doing?”

“Sorting out a slacking colleague.”

Stiles furrows his brow, leaning around to look at Derek’s computer screen.

“Don’t be mean.”

“He’s been sexually harassing his female baristas.”

Stiles chokes on his coffee and splutters. Derek sighs and pats him hard between the shoulder blades a few times, waiting for him to compose himself again.

“Why is he still working for you then?”

“None of the girls want to press charges. I have asked them. And none of them will back me up if I try to sack him, so until I do, he’ll be hanging a legal document over my head.”

Stiles glares at the back of Derek’s laptop, and he nods at him in silent agreement, finishing out the email and sending it. He checks some of his social networks, and none of the notifications are worth his attention. He retweets a couple of good reviews people have mentioned the company’s official twitter in, but doesn’t respond directly to any of them.

“Right, what’s the problem with this application then?”

“Steady on, Sourwolf, I’m still waking up.”

“Well wake up then,” Derek tells him, sitting back in his chair slightly and relaxing as much as he can. This whole place makes his skin itch. There’s something about it that drags him back in, and he doesn’t want to prove Cora right.

“Are you really in that much of a hurry to leave again?”

Derek avoids eye contact for a few moments, hating the crack in Stiles’ voice, the way his breath hitches a little, and the offended, rejected expression he knows his probably plastered over his stupid face.

“I – I’m just really busy. It doesn’t have anything to do with you guys, I just have a lot of responsibilities right now, and I-”

“No worries,” Stiles cuts him off, although there’s an artificiality to his tone, and Derek swallows, feeling like he’s been punched in the gut, “I get it, man. Everyone is going places; it’s not your fault.”

That would make him feel a lot better if the whole ‘I’m busy’ thing wasn’t a total lie. He does have a lot of responsibilities with the business, but he has people who can handle it for him. Cora does a lot of the work too, and he has two offices in Philadelphia that run a lot of accounting and management jobs for him. He can get time off; whenever he wants to really. But every time he thinks about it, he feels a coil of anxiety clench in his stomach and an awkward fear flare up in his chest. 

“Its not that I don’t-”

“Hey, I know. I said its fine. Let’s get on with this application.”

“What’s the problem anyways?”

And then Stiles is off on another topic, explaining with his hands, his mouth moving a mile a minute. Derek listens as much as he can, and the relief of being let off the hook focuses him.

In just over an hour, they have Stiles’ applications sorted for five different universities. Four of them are closer to Beacon Hills, but his fifth one is to NYU. Derek wants to ask about that one so badly, but he knows he’ll slip up if he does. Instead, he gruffly accepts Stiles’ thanks, and promises to come see him before he sets off home again.

* * *

 

He has no fucking idea how they get roped into the county meeting. It’s just that Stiles is the Sheriff’s son, Scott is the town’s alpha, and Derek is… well, Derek. Talia used to sit in on some of the meetings, and Stiles might have a little bit of an ulterior motive to inviting him. He knows Derek, and if he feels responsible for the town as well as the pack, he’ll stay longer.

“The Halloween ball is a bad idea,” Mr Thomas, the high school’s new headteacher says, his eyes beady and mean as ever. Stiles grits his teeth and swallows heavily.

“I’d agree with you, but our seniors are graduating soon and it’s important that they have memories-”

“Memories that include disaster for the police department, Sheriff Stilinski,” Thomas interrupts, narrowing his eyes, “there’ll no doubt be underage drinking and narcotics abuse.”

“That’s a little narrow-minded,” Derek speaks up, and Stiles almost has a heart attack, because holy shit, Derek is speaking.

“I don’t believe I asked for your input, Mr Hale.”

“Why am I here then?”

“I have no idea,” Thomas says, and Stiles opens his mouth to retort, but his father clears his throat.

“Derek has been a valuable asset to this town, and his mother was a strong figurehead when he was younger.”

“Younger, indeed. But there was never any plausible reason for her to be involved either; she didn’t hold a position in office.”

“My mother did more for this town than anyone in history-”

“Your mother isn’t here anymore, and you have a criminal record-”

Stiles reaches out under the table and threads his fingers through Derek’s. His breath hitches and Stiles focuses on radiating as much calm as he possibly can. He watches Derek’s teeth grinding behind closed lips, but he doesn’t say anything else, and Stiles raises his eyebrows to himself, surprised that it worked. He’s going out on a whim here, but apparently, Derek’s more inclined to pack comfort than he’d originally put his faith in, and it’s this that makes Stiles squeeze gently and sit forward slightly.

“Derek’s right. The town needs a boost with the anniversary of all the deaths coming up, and Halloween should be a fun night for everyone. We have the resources to keep an eye on everything, and we could probably even get the press in to report; take pictures of everyone’s costumes, spread a positive message about the youth of today, y’know, shit like that.”

“Stiles,” his dad warns, regarding his language. Stiles smiles, but looks apologetic, and Scott keeps shooting strange glances between him and Derek, confused about something, but not stupid enough to ask about it right now.

“So that’s the last issue of the day sorted then,” the mayor, a tall thin woman with green eyes and short pixie hair, smiles politely and scribbles out something on her notes, “I hope to see you all at the Halloween ball next week.”

Stiles gets Scott and Derek out of there as quick as possible then. Not because he thinks they’re going to wolf out, but because if he has to listen to anymore of Thomas’ bad attitude, he’s going to hit him himself; and he’s had enough of his dad dropping possible assault charges for him to last a life time.

“I swear to fucking god he’s lucky I have a handle on my magic now, or I’d have killed him.”

Scott squeezes his shoulder softly and Derek leads the way out of the building back to the Camaro. When they’re on the road, his parrot goes off and he presses the green button.

“Cora,” he says, “you’re on loudspeaker.”

“Nice; that means I can kick your manipulative asses for stealing my brother from me for an extra week.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Stiles says innocently, although he sees the look on Derek’s face and feels a twang of guilt in his gut. He swears, he’s not trying to take advantage of Derek; he just misses him. He feels like every minute they get with him is ticking away into the next time they have to say goodbye.

“You could just come here too,” Scott suggests, leaning forward between the front seats, “we miss you too.”

“That’s sweet, but I’m already here.”

Derek makes a sound in the back of his throat and Scott’s eyes widen, but Stiles just smiles, nodding as they pull into the Stilinski driveway and Cora is sat on the porch with her legs open, a grin on her full lips. Scott is out of the door before any of them, and the two run into each other, Scott throwing his arms around her waist and lifting her off the ground, spinning her as she laughs.

“Alright, break it up, I want my Cora hug too.”

Stiles slaps Scott on the back and he moves back a step. Cora immediately embraces him, pulling back a moment later to take Stiles’ face in her hands, searching it. It’s been a while, but the last time she’d been here, they’d bonded; he’d learned a lot about Derek through her, and he knows she’d appreciated him not taking Peter’s word for it without question.

“Look at you all big and grown up!” she teases, dragging his face down so she can press a rough kiss between his eyebrows. Then, abruptly, she smacks him up the back of the head.

“OW!”

“That’s for guilt tripping him into staying.”

“I wasn’t trying to!” Stiles whines, “it just happens.”

“I’m right here, y’know,” Derek snaps, leant against his car with his arms crossed over his chest. Stiles hates it when he does that; its adorable as hell, and also makes his damn muscles bulge. Which pisses him off to no end because hey, not fair.

“You’re next,” she points her finger at him, “but I’ve had a long plane ride and I want me some coffee.”

Scott allows her to wrap an arm around his neck and wrestle him into the house, leaving Derek and Stiles stood outside. He feels awkward as hell when he turns around to look at Derek again, rubbing his head where Cora’s slap still stings a little, and looking sheepish.

“I swear, I’m not – look, I know you don’t really want to be here and I’ve been sort of giving you new reasons to keep staying but-”

“Stiles,” Derek stops him, stepping off his car and moving to stand in front of him, and hey, not helping with the gorgeous eyes and everything, “I don’t do anything I don’t want to do; you know that.”

“I know, but-”

“No buts,” he insists, “Cora’s here too, isn’t she? There’s no way she came here just to chew you out. She misses you all as well.”

“You miss us? Awh, man, I’m touched!”

“I can still rip your throat out; you know?”

Stiles just smirks, nudging him softly.

“You wouldn’t get within an inch of me if I thought you’d hurt me; you know that.”

Derek raises his eyebrows, and Stiles just grins, winking at him before turning again, leaping up the porch steps and disappearing inside, enjoying the fact that Derek is 100% having an internal crisis outside.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not much happening here, just some Derek filler stuff featuring the next gen pups and Stiles lingering in the loft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think, and as always, thank you.   
> Dee xxx

Derek has seen Stiles’ magic a number of times. By that he means, he’s seen him in roll up to a fight with literal fire in his eyes and felt the ground shift beneath his feet, felt leaves blowing across the floor and wind rushing up around them, felt the air vibrating and singing to Stiles’ call for power, felt the chill of said power shoot up his spine and raise the hairs on his arms and he’s watched Stiles choke the life out of their enemies without a second’s thought.

He’s watched him perform magic to the point of exhaustion, watched the rivulets of warm liquid flow down the inside of his forearms and link them together on paper, watched Stiles’ eyelids flicker with fatigue, watched his skin pale with the blood loss, watched the unfaltering determination in his expression through glassy eyes and breathless lungs.

He’s watched him light his cigarettes with the small flame between his fingers, watched him casually silencing Jackson half way through an argument about the logistics of Star Trek.

But he’s never quite seen it so… full on. In an everyday setting. With no death threats or Spock in sight.

Which is why he almost has a coronary when he walks into his loft and finds Stiles sat in sweats and an old t-shirt thirty feet in the air on top of a pile of leather bound books. Around him, some more stacked tomes float haphazardly, and a smaller tower directly in front of him supports his laptop for him to type a mile a minute. In the open kitchen, the boiled kettle slops water all over the counter in an attempt to make a coffee that Stiles is barely paying attention to, and the tv in the lounge flickers ominously between channels, sparking a little at the back and toppling back and forth like its overloading itself with static electricity.

“I don’t remember giving you a key to my apartment”

“I don’t remember you knocking. Get some manners.”

“Stiles,” Derek sighs, “you can’t just let yourself in and make a mess of everything like this.”

“Why not? I’ve been doing it my whole life.”

“Don’t try to distract me with self-deprecating comments.”

“It’s sweet that my self-deprecating comments distract you,” Stiles winks at him, talking through a mouthful of cheetos. Derek huffs and goes to the kitchen, beginning to put things away. A few moments later, Stiles is back on the ground and hopping up onto the kitchen counter, watching Derek go about his tasks.

“That’s a lot of groceries,” Stiles says, faux casual. Derek draws in a discreet breath and shrugs nonchalantly, not pausing in his ministrations.

“And?”

“And it looks like enough for another two weeks. For two people. Are you and Cora staying longer?”

“Stiles,” Derek says, “I don’t know what’s happening yet. I just got these in just in case. We might be called back to head office tomorrow.”

“If you do, can I eat it all?”

Derek just shoves a whole egg roll in Stiles’ mouth to get him to shut up, grinning at the offended, unintelligible noises he makes as he struggles to chew and swallow.

Once he’s finished it, his chaotic brain is onto its next focus, and Derek gives himself a mental pat on the back for 10/10 slytherin-ing, successfully avoiding the conversation like he’s been doing for days now.

Crisis averted.

* * *

 

When Derek steps over the threshold, he cringes at the dirty underwear and takes the back scratcher from the coat hook and tucks it under the hem, lifting it. The stench is fucking pungent, and that’s saying something, since Derek had lived in halls during his college years.

“I’m coming in,” he growls loudly, the old alpha edge to his voice carrying through all the rooms of the apartment. There’s a crash from the bedroom from upstairs, and Derek rolls his eyes, placing the underwear on the chair of the dining table and placing the five bags of groceries on the kitchen counter.

The bang is followed by scrambling and Liam muttering to himself as Mason grumbles awake and nudges at Cory where he’s probably laid beside him.

“Dude, it’s too early.”

“It’s three in the afternoon,” Derek says, deadpan as he starts to put the food in the cupboards, ignoring the suspicious smell coming from the one under the sink.

“Shit, really?”

“Yes, really,” Derek sighs, “look, I don’t rent you this apartment for such a good price just for you to leave your shit everywhere.”

“You don’t live here; you can’t tell us what to do.”

“I can evict you,” Derek glares at Mason who stumbles down the spiral stairs in his sweatpants, rubbing at his eyes.

Mason just snorts, tutting, and Derek bristles. Is this what his life has come to? A pack full of betas who used to be frightened of him, and no longer take anything he says seriously? There was a time when all he’d have to do was flash his teeth and lift his voice, and people would scatter for him.

“I’ll tell Scott you’re not looking after yourselves properly.”

Derek feels a twang of satisfaction when Mason wakes up immediately, straightening up as Cory trails behind him.

“You wouldn’t.”

“I would.”

“Man, you’re so mean sometimes!”

“My reputation precedes me,” Derek snorts as he cracks eggs on the pan and cracks the window to avoid the dodgy fire alarms going off.

“Do you even have a rep anymore though? I’m pretty sure you could have your own tv show with Stiles; it can be called ‘how to domesticate your local werewolf’.”

Derek doesn’t even justify that with an answer, just flips the two teens the bird and continues making their dinner for them. He knows that’s just proving their point, but he can’t bring himself to care.

Inexplicably, he spends the rest of the morning cleaning the apartment for them whilst they eat three rounds of cooked breakfast and play video games.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek visits Stiles at college, and he has some weird hallmates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think, and as always, thank you.   
> Dee xx

University is a strange experience for Stiles.

He’s read all about the dynamics and what it’s like, but honestly nothing prepares him for how different it is to… well, everything else he’s experienced so far. Suddenly he has to self-manage all the extra free time, constantly check his bank account for bills going in and out. And people sleep everywhere. Anywhere. All the time.

He walks into class and there’s at least one person still in a onesie and uggs clutching at a cheap coffee cup and snoring on the desk. He walks into the library and people are curled up on the beanbags. He goes for a cig and there are people sat on the floor of the smoking shelters with their eyes closed dozing.

It’s like everyone around him has lost their ability to give a fuck about social normalcy.

In general, that’s a bonus for him because he’s never been good with tact or understanding cues; but this is on a whole other level.

And he finds himself falling in love with it.

The late nights, the way his dormmates eat cherios out of frisbees because they’re too lazy to unpack the box of cutlery they’d bought at the beginning of the semester, the way people don’t really know each other’s names and just call each other by their trademark. Its charming and ridiculous and strange and whilst it’s exhausting and very stressful at times; it’s also pretty cool too.

It’s his magic he has trouble keeping under wraps.

The first-time Cola had walked into Stiles’ bedroom and seen the vials of herbs and the mobiles hanging from the ceiling, Stiles had nearly had a heart attack. Luckily, Cola is always high and just kind of goes with it. Stiles’ own nickname is ‘Potter’. That’s what Cola says he reminds him of; tall, lanky, and snarky with an affinity for accidentally fucking up the electricity in the dorm.

So everyone calls him Potter now, and he has to admit, that’s pretty fuckin cool too.

The main issue, is that its lonely. So lonely, it aches sometimes.

Stiles wakes up in the morning and forgets for a moment that his father isn’t downstairs eating breakfast before he goes to the station, that Scott isn’t about to turn up to eat their food and drag Stiles out of bed for school. He’s an introvert by nature, but the first few months of zero physical contact with his close friends is deeply depressing, and a lot of the time he sorts of wants to curl up in bed and cry for a while.

He talks about his friends a lot though. That helps.

Cola doesn’t particularly listen very often, but it’s nice to say things out loud all the same. The majority of his classmates and the people he’s mildly acquainted with know all about Scott and Allison and the ‘pups’ (Cory, Mason, and Liam). He even has to correct people when they assume Liam is his actual child sometimes.

The most awkward thing though, is when he has to tell people that Derek isn’t his boyfriend. Or that Derek isn’t several different people.

“Derek, the real estate agent.”

“No, he’s a coffee guy.”

“Derek the leather wearing hitman.”

“Well,” Stiles had said, “not anymore.”

“Derek the teddy bear with the thumbholed sweaters and pretty green eyes.”

“Okay, well, you’re not exactly wrong…”

“Derek the trust fund jock who became a cop.”

“Little bit difficult with his criminal record…”

“Derek the-”

Stiles has given up rectifying people or denying their presumptions; besides, it’s more fun to let them speculate and guess than it is to set them straight.

The only time it becomes a problem is three months into the term when Derek comes to visit. He pulls up outside in his shiny black Camaro kitted in the usual leather jacket and tight jeans. Only he is actually wearing a thick sweater under it – with thumbholes – and has three different packets of coffee poking out of the duffel bag he extracts from the back of the car.

Stiles immediately crashes into him and throws his arms around him tightly; so extra in fact, that he almost knocks Derek off his feet. He’ll be embarrassed about it later, but right now he can’t bring himself to give a shit because he hasn’t actually hugged anyone since he arrived here, and Derek looks fuckin gorgeous and dammit if he wants to hug him he will.

Derek doesn’t really move for a few seconds, a little bit taken aback by the outward affection, but eventually he drops the duffel bag and hugs him back just as tight, burying his face in Stiles’ neck.

It’s warm and snug and so overwhelmingly nice, that Stiles thinks his knees might buckle for a few mortifying moments. His chest sings with how much he’s missed having strong arms around his waist, and how deeply he’s been craving this without really knowing.

“Fuck I missed you, you asshole,” Stiles gasps slightly, and fuck anyone who comments on the fact that he’s crying a little bit. Derek just chuckles slightly and nuzzles in further, holding him tighter and just standing there for a while.

“Stiles, its tipping it down with rain.”

“Shhhhhhh,” Stiles says insistently, patting at Derek’s hair as he reluctantly pulls away.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Fine,” Stiles grins.

“Can we… maybe go in now?”

“Sure,” Stiles says, shaking it off and grinning, gesturing for Derek to follow him. He forgets that Derek isn’t used to loud, drunk college students running around naked with wizard hats on before midnight shouting about Donald Trump. That it’s not normal to walk into a kitchen and see Cola packing a bong at the same time as Leela, who likes to sit around topless with her tattoo of a middle finger on show, paints his nails the colour of a rainbow. Stiles grimaces as Niall turns up the Shrek soundtrack in his room down the hall, and Bak comes wondering into the kitchen too, stoned off his tits.

“Woah,” Bak says, stopping dead in his tracks as he comes face to face with Derek, “who invited Edward Cullen to the party?”

Stiles, despite his mortification, has to hide his face in his hands as laughter takes him.

“I need coffee,” Derek just announces casually, as though nothing out of the ordinary is happening right now.

“Oh my gosh,” Stiles says, “my life is insane.”

“Really?” Derek raises his eyebrows as he drops his bag near the dining table, which has been vandalised with crude drawings of genitalia, and flicks the partially functional coffee machine on, “you grew up in Beacon Hills, and this is insane?”

“You’re not even remotely alarmed right now?”

“Stiles, when I was in halls I lived with the prince of a small country in Asia who liked to pole dance, a very small butch girl who could sing opera better than Paul Potts, her very tall girlfriend who thought she was an actual fairy, a stoner from South West England who liked to yell ‘PL1 you danno’ when our flatmates won quizzes at events, and a fifty two year old woman from Ireland who could drink us all under the table. This, is not alarming. This is fairly normal.”

“AAAAAAAAAaaay,” Cola says, pointing dramatically at Derek, “I like this dude, man! Who is he? Waaaaaaait,” he says, gesturing wildly, “is this your leather wearing teddy bear hit man barista?”

“Stiles.”

Stiles winces, making a face and moving to stand a few feet away from Derek, leaning against the counter and shrugging.

“I let them make their own assumptions, whadya gonna do, right?”

“Maybe correct them?”

“None of those things are strictly wrong!”

“Stiles, I swear to god-”

“You’ll what? Throw me against a hard surface and threaten me? Go on big guy, I told you, I’m not defenceless anymore.”

“Wow,” Leela says, sitting back in her chair and crossing her arms over her bare chest, “you two are like, fully married.”

“We’re not!” Stiles says far too quickly and far too high pitched. Leela smirks and continues eyeing Derek up and down.

“Great,” she says, “hey, he-man? You single?”

“Yes,” Derek says, “permanently.”

“Shame,” she shrugs, sighing, “I’d climb ya. Like a tree.”

“Thanks,” Derek says deadpan, and pours both himself and Stiles a coffee. Stiles makes grabby hands at it, only to cough and splutter when he sips at it too fast and its scolding hot. Derek rolls his eyes.

“I don’t even care,” Stiles says, “this is heavenly, your coffee is the shit.”

“I want some!” Bak says, as he pours milk into his frisbee and begins munching on cornflakes.

“Tomorrow maybe,” Derek says, nudging Stiles into gear, “I’m exhausted. I hope your floor isn’t uncomfortable.”

“Dude, I’m not that cruel. You think I’d come to university and not buy a double bed? C’mon,” Stiles pats him on the back and gestures for him to follow again, “we’ll watch a movie.”

“I am not watching Star Wars again.”

“My house, my rules, buddy.”

“ _So married_ ,” Leela says again, and Stiles walks faster to hide his blush. Derek just snorts and nods good night to Stiles’ flatmates.

“Dominos or Papa Johns?” Stiles asks as he lets them into his bedroom, sitting back down on his bed and tugging his open laptop towards him. Derek breathes in deep, and for the first time in forty hours, allows himself to properly relax.

This is better, this smells of Stiles and no one else. It’s not overwhelming, it’s not confusing. It’s brash in a quieter way, the herbs and crystals giving off a very, very low level vibration that he can only feel when he concentrates because he’s a werewolf.

And the walls are covered in all of Stiles’ posters, like his bedroom at home. There’s a pile of dirty washing in the corner like there is back in Beacon Hills, and Derek smiles when he notices the left window is open too; a habit Stiles had gotten into when he realised Derek was rarely going to use the front door.

“Derek?” Stiles tugs him out of his moment, and he blinks, before huffing, stepping out of his shoes and shrugging out of his jacket.

“I’m not that hungry. Order what you want and I’ll pick at it.”

“Alright,” Stiles says, opening up the dominos website, “but I’m pretty tired too so I’ll fast track it and when it gets here we’ll just put the movie on and settle down.”

“Honestly,” Derek says, letting the relief seep into his voice, “that sounds so great.”

Stiles smiles at him warmly, nodding and pointing to his en suit.

“Have a shower if you want. The water pressure is shite, but it’s hot and you stink of road rage. Sorry, man.”

Derek just rolls his eyes again – he spends so much time doing that around Stiles – and makes a beeline, closing the door behind him.

Stepping under the hot spray feels like stepping into the promised land, his achy muscles and itchy eyes soothing as the cubicle fills with steam and he realises then, just how exhausted he really is.

When he gets out, he towels himself down quickly and changes into an old t-shirt and loose cotton bottoms, finding Stiles already laid down against the wall, munching on pizza and going through the opening credits of A New Hope. Derek forces himself not to roll his damn eyes again, and climbs in beside him, shooting off texts to Cora and the rest of the pack to let them know he got here safely. He steals a slice, of which he only manages to eat half, and Stiles doesn’t eat a lot of it either, so they put it on the floor for the morning and get comfortable, a reasonable distance between them.

Before long though, Derek can feel his eyes drooping and his body shutting down, and the only thing his mind registers before he goes to sleep, is Stiles switching the tv off.

And finally everything goes black.

* * *

 

“Shit,” he wakes up to someone growling, “shit. Fuck. I’m going to fucking kill Niall, that stupid little cockwomble. Jesus christ. Hey, calm down.”

When the loud, ear-splitting wailing hits Derek’s senses, he panics, still half asleep and reacting to the trigger.

“Der, c’mon,” Stiles says softly, and then his hands are gripping at his arms tight, warm, solid, grounding, “breathe. We gotta go out. It’s the drill.”

Derek tries to push through the wall that slams up and stops him from being able to pull in Oxygen, but it’s like fighting water; impossible and painful and scary.

“Derek, look at me,” Stiles insists, shouting over the noise and taking Derek’s face in his hands, “in and out, okay? Remember, in and out. Slower. Good. Okay, that’s awesome! Can you walk?”

“J-jesus, yes, I can fucking – I can walk, just…”

“Water,” Stiles says, flailing out of bed and grabbing the bottle from his bedside table, “here, drink this. But we gotta go downstairs. The fireguys have to check the building even when it’s just Niall being a twatted prick. He tries to cook soufflé at three in the morning sometimes. God knows why.”

“Fuck,” Derek breathes, “seriously? It’s like twenty degrees out there.”

“I know, man, I’m sorry. You came here to visit me, this is ridiculous, but I’ll be up shit creek with the housing officer if I stay inside. It’s like a health and safety hazard or whatever.”

“I can’t smell fire,” Derek tells him as they leave, Stiles in just his boxer briefs and a t-shirt. He frowns and grabs the jumper he’d worn to drive in earlier from the floor before they shut the door behind them, and he shoves it at him as they exit the building. Stiles frowns down at it for all of a second before he quickly tugs it on over his head and hugs himself tightly, already shivering.

“It doesn’t usually take them more than twenty minutes,” he says, “but it still sucks.”

There’s a crowd of very pissed off students gathering around now, and the fire guys move them all back a few feet. Derek instinctively moves closer to Stiles so their bodies are touching slightly, and Stiles makes grabby hands at him, closing any space immediately to lynch his warmth. Derek lets out a long, controlled breath.

The panic of the alarm, the smell of smoke (no fire, but still), and the cold, as well as being woken up so abruptly after barely any sleep already, and the fact that he now has to deal with the sleepy and warm and grumpy chemosignals Stiles is giving off, is not helping him sort out his thoughts.

“Fuck,” Leela growls, “I’m gonna shove my cactus up his anus. We’ve told him about this.”

“You know what he’s like when he’s on the wacky baccy,” Cola says, slapping Derek hard on the shoulder, “absolute madman. Alright, Derek, my dude? Welcome to apartment B99; everyone hates us because Niall does this once a week.”

“Great,” Derek says through gritted teeth, starting to feel the cold himself now. He gives up on subtlety and lets Stiles wrap his arms around his waist, draping one of his own over Stiles’ shoulders and huddling in close to the rest of their flatmates.

“You’re not allowed to slash his throat,” Stiles grumbles, “sorry. I did take his voice away for three days last week though. He was convinced it was just a cold. It was hilarious.”

Stiles lowers his voice when he talks about using his magic and Derek just snickers, shaking his head and hiding it in Stiles’ neck, too tired and starting to feel nauseous with fatigue.

“Awh, look at this one, a closet snuggler. You sure I can’t have him, Stiles?”

Derek furrows his brow then, as Leela coos over him. Stiles has told her she can’t… have him? He’s warned her off of him? That’s – that’s… something. It’s definitely something. God, Derek hates being tired; it makes him so thick and monosyllabic. He can’t think straight and the sirens are hurting his head and he just wants it all to stop.

“Hey, c’mon, you’re panicking again. Its fine. There’s nothing wrong. We’ll be okay to go back in in a few minutes and then I promise we’ll sleep in until the afternoon. Der?”

Derek makes a noncommittal noise against Stiles’ throat and Stiles huffs, tutting at him.

“You are such a fucking nerd sometimes, Derek Hale, I don’t know how I stand to be around you.”

“My good lucks and witty charm,” he mumbles, still trying to calm his racing heart. Stiles snorts but holds him tighter, one hand coming up behind them to cradle the back of Derek’s head, fingers stroking softly there.

“I’m sorry this is so shit already. You didn’t have to come. I know you’d rather be at home in New York in your own bed.”

“No,” Derek says quietly, voice muffled.

“What?”

“No,” he repeats, “I’m here because I want to be. I missed you.”

Stiles grins, Derek can feel his jaw moving and suddenly he smells of emotion. Happiness, fondness, a little bit of fear, and a touch of adrenaline. He knows he’ll remember this in the morning and want to bang his head against the wall, but Derek can’t bring himself to give a shit right now. Its true anyways.

No matter how tired he is, how cold, how triggered. He’s here with Stiles, and honestly, as sappy and ridiculous as it sounds, that’s all that fucking matters really.


End file.
